A Suitable Vengeance

“Peter was at Mick Cambrey’s cottage after John Penellin’s visit on Friday night. Later, Mick died. Justin told me about that after John’s arrest last night. And then”—he looked back at her—“Justin died.”


Her lips parted as he spoke, but otherwise her expression remained impassive. “You can’t think your own brother—”

“I don’t know what to think.” His throat felt raw. “For God’s sake, tell me what to think, if you will. Mick’s dead. Justin’s dead. Peter’s disappeared. So what would you have me think of it all?”

Trenarrow took a step as if with the intention of deflecting the strength of Lynley’s words. But as he moved, Lady Asherton did likewise. She joined her son on the sofa, put her arm round his shoulders. She pressed her cheek against his and brushed her lips against his damp hair.

“Dearest Tommy,” she murmured. “My dear, my dear. Why on earth do you believe you must bear it all?”

It was the first time she had touched him in more than a decade.





CHAPTER 18


The morning sky, a cerulean arc under which a froth of cumulus clouds drifted inland, acted as a contradiction to the previous day’s storm. As did the seabirds, who once again filled the air with their raw, importunate cries. The ground below them, however, was a testament to foul weather, and from his bedroom window, a cup of tea in his hand, St. James surveyed the consequences of those hours of rain and bluster.

Slate tiles from the roof lay shattered on the drive which entered the south courtyard over which his room looked. A twisted weathervane had fallen among them, no doubt blown there from the roof of one of the outbuildings that formed part of the courtyard wall. Crushed flowers created occasional mats of bright colour: purple canterbury bells, pink begonias, entire spikes of larkspur, and everywhere the petals of ruined roses. Bits of broken glass made a jewellike glitter on the cobblestones, and one small, curiously unbroken windowpane covered a puddle of water like newly formed ice. Already the gardeners and groundsmen were taking steps to repair the damage, and St. James could hear their voices from the park, drowned out by the intermittent roar of a power saw.

A sharp double rap on the door brought Cotter into the room. “Got what you need,” he said. “Bit of a surprise, that, as well.” He crossed the room and handed St. James the envelope which he’d removed from the estate office desk during his telephone conversation with Lady Helen Clyde. “It’s Dr. Trenarrow’s number.”

“Is it?” St. James placed his tea cup on the cheveret. He took the envelope and thoughtfully turned it in his hands.

“Didn’t even need to ring it, Mr. St. James,” Cotter said. “Hodge knew whose it was the moment I showed it to him. Seems ’e’s rung it enough times over the years.”

“Did you phone the number anyway, to be certain?”

“I did. It’s Dr. Trenarrow’s, all right. And ’e knows we’re coming.”

“Any word from Tommy?”

“Daze said ’e phoned from Pendeen.” Cotter shook his head. “He’s got nothing.”

St. James frowned, wondering about the efficacy of Lynley’s plan, one which stubbornly avoided the participation of either coastguard or police. He had headed out before dawn with six men from the surrounding farms to check the coastline from St. Ives to Penzance. They were operating two launches, one setting sail from Penzance harbour and the other across the peninsula at St. Ives Bay. The boats were small enough to give them fairly good visual access to the shore and fast enough to complete at least a cursory search in relatively few hours. But if that gleaned them nothing, a second search would have to be conducted by land. That would take days. And, whether Lynley liked it or not, it could not be orchestrated without the inclusion of the local police.

“I feel done in by this whole flipping weekend,” Cotter commented as he replaced St. James’ teacup on the tray that sat on the table next to the bed. “I’m that glad Deb’s gone back to London. Get ’er out o’ this mess is what I say.”

He sounded as if he hoped St. James would make a response that would encourage further conversation along these lines. St. James had no intention of doing so.

Cotter shook out St. James’ dressing gown and hung it in the wardrobe. He spent a moment straightening the neat row of his shoes. He banged a set of wooden coat hangers together and snapped the locks on the suitcase which sat on the top shelf. Then he burst out with, “What’s to become of the girl? There’s no closeness ’mong them. Not a bit an’ you know it. It’s not like with you, is it? It’s not like your family. Oh, they’re rich, bloody rich, but Deb’s not drawn to money. You know that well as I do. You know what draws the girl.”